No Smoking
by Poison Ivory
Summary: “'Anyway, it’s normal to want people to know when you care about somebody…' Race’s voice trails off, and it’s hard to tell between the dim lighting and the darkness of his complexion but he might be blushing." SpotRace, modern day


Author's Note: Yay!  My first Newsies story on ff.net!  I feel like I should pop open a bottle of champagne or something.  Except I hate champagne, so I'll celebrate with a Snapple.  Ahh, sweet, sweet caffeine…

…Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  This is a little ficlet written as a challenge for The Second Batgirl, the terms of which were "SpRace.  Modern day.  Telling their friends that they're together."  Not only was it super fun to write, it has a reference to "Toxic," which is just a funny song.  So really, I see no reason why you shouldn't read it.  *g*

Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies.  You would know if I did, because there would be much more nudity and much less Sarah.

No Smoking 

It's a good night for the club.  The dance floor is packed and the bar is doing brisk business, as thirty-something businessmen in cheap gray suits buy drinks with suggestive names for giggling coeds with fake IDs.  The two boys at the table near the back needed fake IDs, too, but one would assume they have no interest in coeds, giggling or otherwise.  Their IDs list them as "Dan Michaels" and "Jake Kerry," but they murmur "Dave" and "Jack" between kisses and the conclusion is that the names aren't too far off the mark.

They're oblivious to anything but each other from the moment they walk in to the moment a half-dozen other boys plunk themselves down at the table, with gentle _ahems_ and amused winks.  Dan or Dave blushes fiercely while Jake or Jack tucks shaggy hair behind his ears and grins brazenly.  There are quick greetings around the table; old friends, obviously, who call each other by odd names like "Mush" and "Skittery."

"So," Dave says, and it's clear that he wants the subject to be anything but him.  "You had something to tell us, Race?"

The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy without good looks but with an arresting attractiveness starts to light a cigarette, catches a warning look from the bartender, and puts away his lighter.  "Fucking Bloomberg.  Yeah."  There's a surreptitious glance to the boy next to him, a wry fey thing with steely eyes.  "Both of us.  Me and Spot."

The smallest of the group, Spot is nonetheless the most intimidating, and though he doesn't speak no one presses him for answers.  Race looks at him helplessly as he leans back in the stiff, uncomfortable chair, arms folded tight across his chest, an untouched beer before him.  There's an uncomfortable silence, if it can be called that; voices and the throbbing base still ring out over their heads and the sudden intimacy of the conversation is startling in this setting.

Jack coughs.  "So…what did you want to tell us?"

Another helpless glance, and now it's clear that there'll be no help from Spot.  Race makes an almost imperceptible gesture that feels like he's throwing up his hands and comes out with it.

"Spot and I are seeing each other."

The words hang in the air and each boy studies them with great interest.  Mush bites back a smile, but not one of amusement; he smiles at long-distance commercials that way when they're sweet and about family.  Blink looks utterly perplexed, while Snitch lets his eyes flick back and forth between Spot and Race as if there's a tennis match on and only he can see it.  Jack lets out a loud "Ha!" that's turned into a cough so expertly only Spot and Dave catch what it originally was; Spot's eyes flicker towards him but Jack doesn't cower and it's suddenly clear that Spot doesn't intimidate _everyone_.

Dave seems more interested in the syntax of the words than their meaning, and he happily puzzles out the mystery.

"But Spot, I thought you were straight?"

Spot speaks, and it's a careless drawl; too careless, but no one notices.  Almost no one.

"So did I."

Dave's brow furrows and he tries again.  "But…but when did this happen?"

Spot's retreated again and it's Race who has to answer.  "Last week."  His eyes are distant and everyone watching knows something deeply interesting happened last week, but no one has the guts to ask.

Skittery shakes his head.  "Well, that's it.  Me and Snitch are the only ones straight around here.  What _is_ it about this town?"  He pauses for a moment, considering.  "You _are_ straight, aren't you, Snitch?"

Snitch bats his eyes across the table.  "Come over here and find out, lover boy."  The boys laugh—most of them—and the tension is gone, like a kettle taken off the fire.  The conversation wanders on to other subjects; school, movies, even politics—the TAs at school are striking for a union and Jack is more worked up about it than an undergraduate would be expected to be.  Mush drags a supposedly-unwilling Blink to the dance floor with the irrefutable logic of "How can you _not_ dance to 'Toxic?'"  David checks his watch and rises to go, blaming an early class the next day; he and Jack are out the door hand-in-hand before anyone realizes tomorrow's Saturday.  Skittery, as usual, is on his way to getting mischievously, then sobbing, drunk; Snitch wanders off towards the coeds, who pounce on him like jackals on fresh meat.

Spot hasn't moved from his seat; his arms are still folded, although sometime during the evening his beer has been drained.  Race fiddles with a pack of cigarettes in his hand but doesn't open it.

"We had to tell them.  I feel better, don't you?"

No answer.

"They're our friends.  It would've been weird, especially if they found out from someone else."

No answer.

"Anyway, it's normal to want people to know when you care about somebody…"  Race's voice trails off, and it's hard to tell between the dim lighting and the darkness of his complexion but he might be blushing.

When Spot moves it's with the darting, lethal grace of a hunting hawk, and Race's cigarettes have left his hands before he knows it.  Spot's own lighter is silver, with a wolf etched on it; he lights one of Race's cigarettes with a practiced motion and inhales deeply before transferring the cigarette from lips to hand to Race's startled mouth.

The bartender shoots them another look; Spot meets his gaze evenly, protectively, as he slides his lighter back into his pocket.  The bartender breaks first and Spot allows himself his first smile of the night.

Race tucks the cigarettes away and slides back down in his chair, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to blow a perfect smoke ring.  No one stops him, despite the red and white sign hanging directly above his head.  Beneath the table his free hand finds Spot's.  Their fingers clench briefly and stay entwined all night.

Like?  Hate?  Other feelings which are weird and deeply disturbing?  Review!  Also, expect a prequel eventually…you wanna know what happened last week, don't you?  (I assure you, it involves angry kissing.)


End file.
